chapped lips and hands on hips
by maddieclaybourne
Summary: she likes to think of them as an edgier when harry met sally. mindy/danny, one shot established relationship


**~*~chapped lips and hands on hips~*~  
pairing: mindy lahri/danny castellano  
fandom: the mindy project  
rating: t**

There's no "meet cute" for them. Well, _not technically_, anyway.

Though, if she remembers right [and she does], she was wearing a super cute orange sweater vest – it brought out her eyes and the deep rich mahogany of her skin – with a peter pan collared blouse underneath and tight herring bone trousers that drew even more attention to her amazing [if you asked anyone, _duh_] ass, and bonus – her totally amazing nude pumps; they made her legs look like they went for miles, yay!

So _at least_when they met, the first time, she was dressed super cute.

He argues; he scoffs and says, "You weren't wearing slacks…" and he can't even finish before she's interrupting. "_Uh_, did you just say _slacks_?" If she was wearing her square black framed glasses, she'd be staring at him over the bridge, trying to be intimidating, which she never pulls off.

Cause she's the chick with the chocolate fountain in her office and she wears Hello Kitty panties and has these ridiculous furry bright pink slippers and can quote _You've Got Mail from_start to finish. Like, he's supposed to be afraid of her. Ha! He's Danny fucking Castellano. He's not afraid of anyone or anything.

She can't pull of intimidating under any circumstance, but the way she's dressed now, he just laughs. She's drowning in one of his shirts; only the tips of her fingers are visible from beneath the cuffs of the sleeves and her hair's kind of crazy with static and being mussed cause his fingers were dragging themselves through the thick black tresses, desperately trying to bring her closer, literally and figuratively.

He's distracted by the haunting echo of her plaintive cry of his name, "_Danny,"_as her walls clenched tight around him, gripping like a vice and feeling so damn good.

"**Hey!"** She chucks one of her many pillows – that he always swipes off her bed, even as she protests – at him. "**Hello, Casta-lame-o**, pay attention! Can't you see that I'm trying to decide how I will tell our future children how we met and slowly but surely, after I broke down all your walls and through your irrational anger and fears of getting re-married because you were left a shell of your former self when your wife unexpectedly – or not so unexpectedly since I remember how much of a jerk you were and still are, to be honest, but just sometimes; not like all the time, like you used to be…"

"_Jesus!"_He interrupts this time, roughly pushing his fingers through his dark hair. "Can I get you outfitted for a mute button? And can't you just tell the future bed wetters and doll lovers that we met running the practice, you tried and failed to resist my manly charm and then I just decided to embrace the crazy that is being with you and gave you a ring?"

"Um, no! I can't! Because that's _not_ what happened, and you know it! _You _couldn't resist _me_, okay? You spent your days tortured by wafting perfume – the perfect combination of jasmine and hibiscus – and your nights dreaming of how super sexy cool I'd look in your Springsteen concert t-shirt from 1983. Don't lie, Castellano. You totes did."

"For the last time; it's _not_ a Springsteen concert, it's _a show_!"

"Ugh, of course _that's_what you focus on."

Without preamble or grace, she climbs into his lap. He hopes she's going to stop talking, so he can take his shirt off of her, button by button and get his hands and mouth on the full curves underneath; the ample swell of her breasts, the round shape of her ass and the stretch of her thick thighs that wind into the smooth length of shapely legs.

She doesn't.

She starts squirming and **oh, God**, is she trying to _pose_? When she tilts her head back and moves her body nearly a 180 degrees, so she's not even facing him anymore, he realizes that fuck, she _is_trying to pose. She bats her lashes facetiously and looks at him over her shoulder and he rolls his eyes.

"You know you're being ridiculous, right?"

"I am not! Can't you see that I'm trying to see which pose and I have three more that I'd like to try, by the way, will get you to appreciate my body in the best light possible? That I want to make sure I'm in the perfect position to get you to properly make slow, sweet and sensual love to me? Like, what do you need a neon sign coming out of my vajayjay?"

"First; _never_ say _that_ again. Second; posing isn't going to make me have sex with you. And as for the whole slow, sweet… Whatever girly thing you said, don't _ever_say that again either. I can figure out how fast the race car's supposed to go around the track, okay, sweetheart?"

Her nose scrunches and she shakes her head. "**Sweetheart?"** She says it slow, almost like a child learning a new word. "Hmmm… Nah." She decides. "I don't like it. I think I'm more of a "**babe,"** than a "sweetheart," don't you think? Babe sounds way cooler. Like," She drops her voice and puts on a thick New York accent, obviously imitating him. "Hey, Babe. Yeah…" Her eyes light up and her voice is its normal feminine high pitch. "_I'm definitely_a babe."

He just laughs and twists her around, so she's facing him again. He shifts so her legs fall open and drape over his thighs. He slides his hands, rough with callouses, up the smooth length of her legs, thumbs massaging as they go and he can feel goose bumps coming alive across the miles of mahogany skin that always smells so damn good and feels even better.

He bends; his lips hovering over hers, so close to a kiss, but there's still space. "Sure, babe." He husks out, smirking at how the dusky caramel of her eyes are glazed over and the way her thick, velvet lashes bat furtively. She's putty in his – or in this case – underneath his hands, if you know, you wanna get technical.

"Definitely," She breathes out, and he loves when her voice gets low like that, breathless and husky; the tone warm against his skin. "A babe."

The push of her hips against his only reinforces her statement and he laughs low in his throat.

They're where they were just twenty minutes before; sweat drying on their skin, her hair damp and sticking to her forehead, his chest heaving and her fingers patting through the nest of hair that's there.

Then she's sighing, all light and airy, and snuggling and he rolls his eyes and groans, making a big show before he wraps an arm tight around her, pulling her even closer and then she's looking at him smug and satisfied and just like the last time, his dick stirs weakly at the sight; smug and satisfied makes her look better than usual, not that he'll tell her.

"You know," She murmurs and there's her eyes – lighting up like Christmas lights – and this impish little smile on her full coffee colored lips, and he has to roll his eyes because she's going to start talking about some chick flick and how so and so laid like this and how it's okay that he likes to cuddle – or worse, maybe she'll say spoon, ugh – as much as she does and she'll never tell if he lets her put kittens on the memos, and he'll tell her to shut up and she'll swat him and turn on the other side, pouting.

And he should play the lotto sometime because _that's_what happens.

Sort of.

"We're like an edgier version of _When Harry Met Sally_." Her voice is soft in his ear and dreamy, like she's some little girl going gaga over some pasty vampire pansy. "Which,_OMG_, means we're basically like Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf aka _Gossip Girl's_best plot, ever – even better than the one where Serena was a PA/actress for, like, five seconds and so much better than when Chuck's Dad came back from the dead and stole Lily from Rufus – and I don't care that you don't know what I'm talking about because you will, someday. Mark my words, Castellano. You will know all about Harry Burns and Sally Albright and Dair and Gossip Girl and my bible Martha Stewart Living. You know why?"

"No." He sighs. "But I have a feeling, you're gonna tell me."

"Because you _can't_ resist me. That's why. And that is the bedtime story I'm going to tell our future children; Daddy couldn't resist Mommy just like Harry couldn't resist Sally and Dan wasn't immune to Blair and we're a love story for the ages. The kind that they write songs about, that fans would obsess over if we were on a TV show, like Sookie and Eric from _True Blood_ or Meredith and Derek from _Grey's Anatomy_… But, you know, **better**. Cause we're Danny and Mindy."

"Whatever you say, babe."


End file.
